Attempted Murder
by spoonerdog123
Summary: After Battle City, Bakura was left with a promise Marik never kept - and now he wants his payment. So, he sets up the Egyptian in a nice little alleyway... (Thiefshipping oneshot, rated for some kissing, some fighting, and some blood)


**Prompt:** Tradefic for PandaTeddyClaws: Run a shipping that involves any of the following characters with one another: Anzu, Ryou, Marik, Yami Marik, Bakura, TKB if I can get him in. Picked Thiefshipping, because I've never actually done that one before, and wanted to give it a go.

**Warnings: **Dark(ish), with kissing, violence, blood, and Assassin's Creed references. Yay?

**Other Babble: **And if it sounds like I've been doing some oneshots lately, it's because... well, because I _have_.

* * *

**Attempted Murder**

The alleyway is dark; unmoving but for the flickering shadows that dance over it, clustering around the few spots where light from the full moon overhead has managed to break through the canopy of ancient tin roofing and criss–crossing pipe. It is silent, but for the dull clank and clatter of an old can, stirred by an invisible breeze; and the dry rustle of tattered pieces of paper, worn beyond readability. Every now and then, there is a shrill, piercing sound, a scream – a cat, let's hope it was a cat, pray that it's a cat.

_Clearly_, this is an atmosphere most romantic.

…Okay, so the place may not be welcoming, but he is more than welcome in it – he perches precariously on one of the pipes; fingers digging into the grooves of the metal as he crouches, silhouetted against the moon – an impressive sight, if only his prey were to look up (which of course it won't, because prey never does). Much unlike his ancestor, he is wearing little that might get in the way of his task; a black jumper with the hood pulled up allows him to move about with relative ease, and means that he will not be easily given away by the glint of his pale skin. The black cargo pants, loose yet well–fitting, serve much the same purpose as the hoodie, as do the gloves and sneakers of a similar colour.

The curious ebony binding covering the right sleeve from slightly below his elbow to just above his right wrist, however, has an extra job.

At this thought, he flexes the three fingers and thumb still present on his right hand, watching a sliver of silver slide out ever so neatly from under the binding, meandering across the black fabric covering his palm – the removal of his host's ring finger has been undoubtedly worth the use of such a weapon. Ever since he saw the 'hidden blade' in action, watched the game being played through the boy's eyes, he has wanted it; and after Battle City, decided he has a great use for it. Of course, whatever this master thief wants, he gets – and so he has one now. It is not _exactly _like the fantastical one in the game, of course; this hidden blade is powered not by hidden springs or mechanisms, but more simply by the brainwashed soul that moves the blade in and out at his command…

"Show yourself!"

He curses under his breath; whilst lost in his own musings, the prey appears to have arrived. And far from being the quiet, meek thing he had expected it to be without its hate, it is _shouting_; the atmosphere the poor writer worked so hard for fleeing before He Who Wears The Midriff–Baring Hoodvest Of A Horrible Purple Colour, a flimsy hood pulled over its ridiculously blonde bangs, the thin and floppy material flapping around in a fashion almost comical whenever it moves its head. "Bakura!", it snarls, violet eyes blazing, "I know you're there!"

Bakura decides to call that little outburst a bluff; after all, how could his target possibly know that he happens to be hiding right here, in this particular alleyway? And even then – the threat he had sent the young man was most cunningly forged in the handwriting of one of Yugi's useless friends. There was no way the prey could possibly have traced it all back to the pale teen, surely.

To be honest, Bakura longs to pounce from his vantage point and come down on his target from above, hidden blade flashing; but it is not yet within leaping range, and he does not wish to miss his one opportunity to take it by surprise, and take what it had been promised with it. Regardless of whether he lost or won that fateful duel on the Battle City airship, the Millennium Rod and a viewing of an unclothed back are still both _his_; and so Bakura has come here to take these from their owner – forcefully.

And he will; just as soon as his target comes within range – but for now, it has not moved from its position, and so he does nothing in the way of attacking. Instead, the thief watches on in a fashion almost lazy as it draws a golden dagger from a sheath set at its hip – an item most ornate, golden and set with gems; more sacrificial than exactly battle ready, perhaps, but nonetheless something that could hurt a fair bit if it happens to score a hit on Bakura. With the red–ribbed handle held carefully in his hand, the target looks about, head snapping with the trained precision of a hardened warrior – left and right it goes, then over its shoulder; though it will never look up, of course, they never look up. Holding his evil giggles in, Bakura flicks out his hidden blade, raising his right arm in preparation for the moment when his prey will take a few steps forwards, when the assassin will come leaping down and–

–well, _then _the prey looks straight upwards, the motion sudden and unexpected.

Just like that, the thief is caught in the glare like a rabbit in the headlights of a truck; _caught_, something he would never have imagined to happen to him, the very master of shadows and manipulation. Bakura's target stares, and he finds himself staring back; two lips curl in equal amounts of indignation, as each teen eyes the other, then their clothes, then the weapon their opponent is carrying; each attempting to look as though _he _is the innocent, despite them both knowing that they are both guilty. There is, for a time, a deathly sort of quiet reigning over the alley; an adjective ironic in that there are no fresh bodies lying lifeless on the pavement – or at least, not _yet_.

"Were you going to kill me, Bakura?", Marik Ishtar remarks at last, almost mildly, though the steely glint in his eye combined with the grip on the dagger says otherwise. He may be slightly more polite than the assassin; but he is by no means _nice_ – Bakura knows full well that the deadly object in his hand says more about him than anything the young man's slender build, unusual clothing choice, and somewhat girly hips might imply. Now that the thief has lost the element of surprise, he will have to be very careful with this one; the Egyptian's cunning is formidable to say the least.

"Who's to say I _was_, Marik?", he calls down, sliding the hidden blade back into its compartment with a simple thought directed at it, spreading his hands wide to show that he is now carrying no weapons; a show of innocence, and one in his opinion much needed when dealing with this particular teenager, especially given the terms on which they parted last time they met. "Maybe I was going for a walk."

"Yeah, I'm sure you were going for a walk. A lovely little skulk, in an otherwise deserted alleyway in the dead of night, carrying a weapon. Right after you sent yours truly a forged note so badly done that a child could have picked it wasn't Joey who had sent it." Marik's voice drips sarcastic sweetness, slathered over it as though the added tones are honey falling over the very edge of a sharp knife, and Bakura only just bites back a snarling response filled with hate and rage. After all; if he wants to get to any spot near his prey that_ doesn't_ happen to be on the business end of the Egyptian's dagger, he needs to choose his words carefully.

"To the former, I am sure that I need not remind you that I _am_ the darkness. And to the latter, I did no such thing; though I must ask, how could _you _know any better than a child in matters of forgery?"

"Joey can barely write. And even if it hadn't been addressed as being from Joey, I'm sure I don't need to explain the whole 'I'm a master forger' thing to ya." He scowls up at the other teen, looking almost petulant. "Look, I'm not in the mood for games, Bakura. Get down here."

"What, so you can stab me?", he snaps, eyes flashing murder for a moment before he manages to rein in his temper. "Er, so what I _meant_ to ask was–"

He snorts. "No, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want you down here so that I can give you what you were likely going to kill me for. We had a _deal_."

The pale teen balks; wondering for a moment if maybe he has overestimated Marik's intelligence. Bakura would never handed over the Millennium Rod just like that, after all, and he has always envisioned the Egyptian with a mindset similar to his own; such submissive behavior seems rather out of character for the teenager. "Well, I was under the impression that–"

"Do you want it or not?", Marik growls; and in that, there is a sort of crankiness, one which has Bakura dropping the polite façade in a split second. Clearly, manners are not going to work, aren't going to make Marik do his bidding even whilst the Egyptian believes that Bakura is serving _him_; and so the assassin drops the tool of acting, as it were, deciding on something more suited to the situation: the tool of murder. The hidden blade comes out again from under the binding, glittering ominously in the sickly yellow light that emanates from the Millennium Item, nestled under his hoodie.

"You nearly got me killed with _your _stupid plan, Ishtar. To be honest, I wouldn't mind paying you back for that."

In reply, the Egyptian bares his teeth in a move disguised as a yawn, stretching his arms in order to almost casually swish the dagger, as though making sure that the pale teen knows he happens to have it. "I thought _you _were the one who came up with the plan, Bakura. After all, you told me not to interfere with your oh–so–perfect strategy."

Bakura's eyes narrow, and putting his blade for the moment, he begins to crawl along the top of the pipe he has been crouching on; the upwards slope and the slippery metal make it hard to gain much ground, but he still inches his way forwards, towards his target. "You said before that you weren't in the mood for games. So stop playing with me."

"Stop playing with _me_, and I'll consider it," the Egyptian replies, his voice as smooth as ever, but his body tensed as though it is a coiled spring, as he waits patiently for the pale teen to come to him. The point of his dagger traces Bakura's movements, his accusing gaze never leaving the thief. "We had a deal, and I am willing to keep my side of the bargain."

Bakura pauses a while in thought, considering this. "Then if you are _serious_ about the deal, put the Rod on the ground."

"Why don't I instead remove my clothing and turn around? My back was part of the promise, after all. And I'm sure nothing bad could _possibly _happen to it if I was to expose it."

Marik's confident sneer gets on Bakura's nerves more than anything else about the teen – it always has – but the thief is careful to hold his tongue. Just a few more inches, he tells himself, and the pale haired teen can make his deadly leap; coming down on the unprotected young man with a savage howl. Just a few more inches; all he has to do is keep his target talking a little longer. "What a sweet idea!", he hisses, clawing his way further along the pipe, his face now spread wide in a grin almost psychotic. "I would be more than happy to help you remove your clothes."

The Egyptian blinks in confusion; which exactly the reaction Bakura was hoping for with that remark, seeing as it distracts the prey from what the predator is doing. The Egyptian recovers quickly, however; he shakes his head as though to clear it, and laughs; a harsh cackle, as hard and mirthless as the dagger in his hand. "I need no help."

"Oh, no, no, no. I simply _must _remove your clothes for you" – and at last, the assassin springs, his blade slipping out from under its binding as he pushes off from the pipe, lunging for his target – "and your head, too!"

Of course, it is only in midair that he realizes that Marik is more than capable of impaling him as he falls – with a quick step back and an upwards thrust, Bakura's slender frame could easily be driven hard onto the blade, a quick death only made more messy by the force of gravity. The Egyptian's weapon immediately rises to defend him, and the thief finds himself forced to change plans in midair, bringing his hidden blade towards the dagger instead of towards his target's neck, in a desperate attempt to protect himself. This, of course, takes a while to describe, but the reader should know that this part of the conflict happens in a split second; one moment, each combatant is perfectly still, and in the next instant, their blades have slammed into each other with a loud initial clang, then an absolute shriek of steel on steel as Bakura slides downwards. The thief's momentum sends Marik staggering, his weight tearing the blonde's flimsy hoodvest apart as the former uses his free hand in an attempt to strangle the latter with his collar.

With a soft growl of pain, the Egyptian knees the young man in the stomach, then swings hard with the dagger whilst his opponent is winded and dropping into a crouch; an utterly inappropriate use of the blade, but certainly an effective one; for it removes the top of Bakura's hoodie, shaving a few centimeters off the other combatant's white bangs in the process – had the pale teen not ducked, he could have been decapitated.

"Aha!", he crows, and lunges again, placing a foot just behind the thief and slamming his hand into Bakura's chest just as the latter attempts to stand – the combination of trip and shove sends the assassin hard onto the cracked tarmac of the alleyway, flat on his back. Something goes _snap _as the pale teen hits the ground, and he lies quite still; mouth thankfully not hanging open, so that at least some of his dignity might be salvaged.

Marik stares down at Bakura a long moment; then decides to sum up the whole incident with a single derisive snort and a mumbled "Disappointing", even as he removes the tattered remnants of his own hoodvest from around his shoulders; just in case anyone sees him later – he would rather be mistaken for a thug than a beggar, after all. Reaching down, the Egyptian slides the hidden blade's binding off its owner's arm, just in case the other teen tries anything; he then flips Bakura's hood back, slipping two fingers under the collar in the hopes that this will let him check for a pulse–

–and a pale hand flicks out, so fast that he doesn't even see it until a good second after he feels it make contact – in that moment, it is not made of flesh and bone, but white lightning, electrifying, sending shivers down Marik's spine as the claw – like digits take his right wrist in an iron grip. He can guess why the thief is suddenly energized again, if not conscious; the Millennium Ring is glowing again, he can see it through the weave of the hoodie.

_Cheater._

He tries to move away, but Bakura merely pins his hand to the street in reply, snatching his left hand and dragging it similarly downwards when he attempts to free himself with it, batting the dagger from his grip. He has little time to protest against the move – for no sooner does the Egyptian have one hand on either side of the creature's head, than red eyes are snapping open, and there's a sneaker slamming hard into Marik's stomach. Grunting in some surprise, he finds himself falling on top of the pale teen, his bare chest meeting the rough fabric of the other teen's hoodie, and then… well.

Either Bakura kind of sticks his tongue out in a taunt and misaims the headbutt, or maybe Marik kind of twists his head at the wrong moment; perhaps it's a bit of both, neither are exactly sure. All they really know is that one minute the Egyptian's tumbling towards the other young man, and the next minute – _bam_, they're technically kissing, Bakura's tongue forced into Marik's mouth. The latter bites into the soft flesh, hoping that the sudden pain caused will let him get his hands free; but in all reality this means that Bakura cannot get away from his opponent, no matter how loudly he yelps around his tongue.

Hoping to surprise the teenager into letting go, the thief deepens the kiss with his lips, eyes half–closed in agony from the agony his tongue is now in. Purple eyes widen in shock as he does this, the vice of Marik's jaws loosening ever so slightly; but he does not let go, and so Bakura ends up leaning into the kiss, utilizing his mouth to gain advantage over the situation. Inch by precious inch, he slowly forces the two of them to roll sideways, trying desperately to get the Egyptian's head closer to the pavement – so that with a sudden jerk, the thief may headbutt his prey, and hopefully not manage to miss this time.

Of course, what Bakura _doesn't _expect is that by the time they are anywhere near the position he desires, Marik actually appears to be enjoying proceedings, his lips twitching in a smirk; and to be honest, the pale teen's enjoying the moment as well, humming a little when a few drops of blood are eventually drawn from the tip of his tongue, running back into his mouth, the salty taste one very much familiar, one that he very much likes. It's not really _kissing_, he reminds himself (never would he do something so ridiculously mushy as that), but more of a struggle for dominance, no different from what they were doing before with the dagger and the hidden blade; he may have Marik's hands pinned, but the Egyptian has him in pain, is making him bleed – that the pain and the blood happens to feel good is entirely besides the point. Their weapons are useless, lying in the gutter as their owners tussle in a display of growling and snarling; the fight ending only when the tanned teen manages to get his left leg up high enough to deliver a kick into Bakura's groin, causing him to break off his activity with an almost comical little whimper.

But as the Egyptian strides off down the alleyway in a show of silent triumph, taking the dagger and hidden blade with him, the pale teen knows in heart that he's also won this fight.

For there, burned into his vision, is the bare, exposed, cut and scarred back of the victor as he recedes; one of the two prizes Bakura sought to take that night, now surrounded by the ever–watchful shadows. Marik might have the Millennium Rod, or at least the pale teen thinks he has it – but then again, Bakura doesn't really need the thing right this minute, and he now knows exactly what the guy's back looks like; valuable information pouring into his head as he lies in the alleyway. He's alive, and he's got half of what he came for - he is by no means _content_, but certainly pleased with what he achieved this night.

Still, he has to wonder what the host is going to make of it all...


End file.
